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Show Woodworth/l86 won't be alone long. The atmosphere is jovial, chattiness floats in the air. Men and women, dressed like manikens, lounge, sit, stand, gesture, move their mouths. A wooden fan rotates knowingly over heat, and waiters oscillate in candy-striped costumes from table to bar to table. One command, seeminly, could stop the action, turn off the lights. Or make everything happen in double time. Everyone mmmm UBil lines, •*•••» part. As she follows Rachael to a table near the bar, Marty steps into her role. Knows who's watching without moving her eyes. Knows her hips are swaying without pushing them. Good. This feels good. It's his fault. He could have called. He doesn't need to know. Rachael orders a scotch and water from the hostess as they sit, and Marty adds a gin and tonic before the woman disappears. When their drinks arrive, they order another. "There's no sense having to wait around," Rachael comments. "And things are pretty crowded tonight." They both turn to the bar, watching the action. Slim men leaning towards slimmer women. A casual touch while lighting a cigarette. A brush of thighs when turning. Half closed eyes, look languidly up, assertively down. A touch to the hair. They're good, all of them. They don't slip. "I'm in town until Sunday." a man's voice near Marty's shoulder says. She turns, slowly. Disinterested. Languid. He has his back to her, and she sees beyond him a dyed blonde in a white pant suit grinning between painted lips. She turns back to Rachael. "It's so obvious what everyone's after here." "Don't knoick it. Isn't that why you're here?" "Yeah. But it seems so deceitful to go through this whole s^fliaLu....Mhjr»,sailutimpeople go up to each other, and say, |